Avoidance
by Sunny33
Summary: Dean's in a mood, and he doesn't need Sam's sympathy either. All Sam can do is perservere. Post 4.16. Chapter 2 up!
1. Chapter 1

**Avoidance**

Another hunt. Another injury.

Sam glanced over at his brother in the passenger side. His head lolled for a moment before he snapped himself awake. His eyelids fighting gravity. How many times had Sam seen Dean like this? Exhausted. In pain. Bleeding. Not enough fingers and toes, he thought to himself.

The bloodied rag on Deans knee fell to the floor, and for a beat, Sam considered reaching over for it. But, then, they were nearly home. Home. What a joke. Another bare, lifeless motel. No soul. No heart to it. But it was all they had. All they'd ever had, and Sam pressed his foot down on the gas to get there faster. They'd been out too long, and Dean had a head wound.

The familiar smell of the motel assailed his nose as he opened the door and let Dean walk past him into the room. The bloodied hunter shrugged off his jacket and threw it onto the chair by the bedside. The rag pressed to his forehead, he sat on the edge of the bed, and jammed one boot against the other to take them off. Sam glanced towards him. And there it was again. The silence. Like an obstacle they couldn't quite see over. A bad habit they'd slipped into after...well, really after Alister, now that Sam thought about it.

He reached for the light switch to the bathroom, went into wash his hands. A glance up at the mirror revealed a blood smear across his nose and cheek. He rubbed at it with a wet hand. He remembered how it had happened. He'd noticed Dean's head wound and the blood, and had reached out towards it, a natural gesture from days gone by. A need to fix it. A need to help. He'd barely brushed his bloodied hair when Dean had suddenly moved to avoid his touch. A reaction to Sam's reach, accompanied by a frown and a gruff, 'Come on, let's just go'. A blunt rejection. Fine. If that's how he wanted it.

When he got back to the bedroom, Dean had angled himself back against the headboard. His hand still pressed upon the wound. Sam switched on the TV, only for the back ground noise. Something to dull the silence. He threw the remote onto his bed and raked inside the hold all for something, before trying again.

"Want me to fix that?" he murmered.

"No thanks, I'm fine," Dean answered too quickly. Too quietly.

Sam nodded. Dropped the bag quietly on the floor. Picked up the first aid kit and dropped it gently onto his brother's bed making Dean look at it momentarily.

"Last chance. Or I'm going to bed." He tried to keep his voice light. Unconcerned. But what the hell. Dean knew. He always knew.

Dean closed his eyes for a beat. Took the cloth away, only to have the blood follow familiar lines down his cheek again. He reapplied it with an exasperated sigh. And at last, he nodded, almost in defeat, Sam thought.

Without a word, he had allowed Sam to clean the blood away from the wound with a clean damp cloth. He'd allowed him to examine the cut. Allowed the close proximity. The personal space to be invaded. Such normal practice in the past – now an event, almost. The dried blood cleared, Sam could see it was the usual suspect. Just above the eyebrow. An old scar now reopened. The swelling was already beginning to distort it. He carefully picked the paper stitches from the sterile card while Dean waited patiently. Green eyes watching. And for an instant their eyes met. Not the usual spark of affection and respect. No. More a weary sadness, Sam thought.

"That's the first one on," Sam had ventured. The start of light conversation perhaps. "Between the two of you, he came off the worst, I'd say."

But Dean's eyes had flicked past his brother already. He wasn't biting. Fine.

Another one. And another. The job done. No more bleeding. Sam leaned back slightly, to admire his handy work.

"That should hold it," he said. Waiting for approval. A nod or a smile. A grunt even. Instead, Dean had lowered his eyes. Licked his lips and waited for Sam to move back. As soon as he did, Dean got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

Sam stared at the wall behind the headboard, and rubbed his face. He glanced at his watch. 1.50am. Who wanted conversation at such a Godless hour anyway? He shook his head and wandered over to his bed, dumping the first aid kit into the hold all on the way.

He let his muscles relax amongst the worn coolness of the sheets. Things would be different in the morning, he told himself. Energy renewed, weary bones rested, problems a different shade under a morning light. The bathroom door opened quietly and Sam heard Dean switch out the light and get into his own bed. He closed his eyes and tried to settle. Soon the gentle rhythm of Dean's breathing would lull him to sleep, as it had done for the past four years.

"Thanks," Dean suddenly said. His voice piercing the darkness that surrounded them both.

"No problem," Sam answered too quickly. Quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Something woke him.

He listened, unmoving. Hardly breathing. Whatever it was, it would happen again. It was usually a pipe. Motel plumbing was never that efficient. Or, it would be someone next door. Paper thin walls were a standard in the types of Motels the Winchesters frequented. He continued to listen. The beat of his heart providing a comforting rhythm in the otherwise still night.

And then Dean shifted in his sleep.

Ah. Dean. A sigh and a gentle cough, and more movement. And then it started.

"No...not me..." he began. Sam sighed and rolled onto his back. Well, here we are again, he thought to himself. After a welcome break of what...three weeks or so...it was 'hello' nightmares and 'goodbye' shut eye. He turned a sleepy head towards his brothers bed.

Dean, on his back had one arm raised up, pushing something, someone back. Away from him. A warning gesture? Or a threat. His hand was opened. On the defensive. Not fisted in rage and fear. Sam tried to imagine what demons existed in Dean's dream now.

A sob, swallowed back. And then, "Back again...please..." Sam frowned. Dean saying please. Must be bad.

Sam listed his options. Past strategy had seen him calling Dean's name gently. That sometimes worked. Other times, the commanding, 'Dean, wake up!" usually worked, but the tone had to be just right, and he didn't feel he had the energy at that point. He closed his eyes and drifted for a beat.

"Hm...'cos...hurts me..." Some uneven breathing, and more wrestlessness. Sam opened his eyes to see Dean flipping over onto his stomach. Such a baby face when he sleeps. Takes years off him. No scowl or frowns. No dark circles under his eyes. An innocent expression of blissful naivety. Like a child.

Sam rolled onto his side. He blinked hard in the darkness, trying to see if the paper stitches he'd applied only 2 hours ago to Deans left eyebrow were still in situ. They were. No dark stain of blood evident. As far as he could see.

Another sob. Sam hated it when he cried in his sleep. He did it most just after he'd come back from hell. Not so much now. It would be Alistair, he concluded. That sleazy bastard had a lot of broken nights to answer for. Sam snorted at the memory of ending that demon's life...for good. How satisfying had that one been? Totally.

"C...can't do it...don't," Dean murmered, his voice rising as if avoiding a confrontation. Sam tutted.

"Dean," He ventured quietly. No response. "Dean," he tried again. He watched Dean scratch the back of his head. Well, that was something. A sign of raised consciousness perhaps? A moment later he felt his eyes slide shut. Deans steady breathing lulling him to sleep.

Another shift of position. Erratic breaths. Now he's struggling. Fighting. Defending something, or someone. OK, so the gentle name calling thing had failed – and plan B required a lot more concentration than he actually wanted to expend at this time in the morning, so the next step was to physically wake him. Now, you really had to be on your toes for that one, because you had to be close enough to touch him, but far enough away to avoid the left hook that would sometimes fly out and catch you unawares.

Still, he was on his stomach. It was worth a shot.

Comfortable in his own position, Sam tried one last time. "Dean." A broken sigh, like a quiet sob a child would make in between wails of grief. And then he moved onto his side.

"Stay back!" Louder. With meaning. Oh, this had to stop, Sam told himself. He lifted his head from the pillow and sat up, elbows on his knees. He scrubbed his face and leaned forward to place a hand on Deans upper arm.

"Dean...hey, Dean," A gentle shake. More erratic breathing. A grimace. It was mingling. Bleeding into each other. The dream life and the real life. In his dreams, someone was grabbing his arm, or slicing into his arm. Or breaking it.

"No...Sam watch your...Sam?" Sam hesitated for a beat, watching Dean roll onto his back and force an arm out into the darkness. His palm upturned, beckoning, gentle coaxing. "Sam, come on now..." Pleading again.

Sam swallowed dryly. God, he'd give anything to be a fly on the wall of this dream to see what was going on. It seemed like an age since Dean had spoken to him like that. 'Cos it had all changed when he'd come back. Everything was different. Nothing between them was like it used to be. Like it once had been. Dean's mood had been blacker than the night these past few days. Probably stress. At least he was communicating now. In his dreams. Dreams of his brother.

How many had Sam had when Dean was downstairs? Plenty. And none of them particularly pleasant, he recalled. Whatever this one was, it wasn't a comedy either. He leant forward and pressed a hand onto Dean's chest. Felt the moisture through his T Shirt.

"Dean!" he snapped, determined now. This had to end. End now.

And at last, he was awake. Dean dropped his hand down, and turned to look at his brother. Sam drew back his hand from his chest.

"What?" he croaked.

"Nightmare," Sam returned quietly.

"Oh." Dean answered. He rubbed at his hair and inhaled a cleansing breath.

"What was it?" Sam asked, not actually expecting an answer.

Dean thought for a beat. Revisiting the nightmare. He shook his head. "Nothing. Go back to sleep," he whispered.

Sam swung his legs around and settled back into a comfortable position. He heard the sheets being pulled as Dean moved into his own favourite, sleep inducing shape.

No change there then, Sam told himself. Well, they'd both maybe snag another two hours out of the night, and then perhaps, maybe, Dean would wake up in a lighter mood. Not be avoiding all conversation and contact. Be more like Dean. Whatever it was, he'd snap out of it. He always had in the past, hadn't he? Soon, the rhythmic sound of his brother's breathing signalled a thread of normalcy again.

Sam sighed, and closed his eyes.


End file.
